


Drawing Straws

by vtn



Category: Green Day
Genre: Fade to Black, Fluff, Friendship, Hotel Sex, M/M, OT3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-02-20
Updated: 2006-02-20
Packaged: 2017-11-11 12:48:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/478703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vtn/pseuds/vtn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A night on tour for Green Day.  "No, no, I just meant let’s shove these beds together. There’ll be room for three if we squeeze."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drawing Straws

Mike takes one look at the orange-black sky that holds its breath, dangerously on the edge of exhaling, and declares, “It’s gonna storm like fuck.” 

“Yup, thanks for reminding me,” grumbles Bill, who’s several paces past irate after eight hours of straight driving on the sorts of highways that seem to blur into one at the end of the day. “I swear, I’m pullin’ off at the next fuckin’ exit and we’re gonna find somewhere to spend the night.” The bus is cramped and filled to the creaking seams with the smells of armpits, impatience, and week-old pizza crusts. Billie Joe can tell—every single one of them is holding their breath just like the sky, in wait for ‘somewhere’ to show up right around the corner.

‘Somewhere’ turns out to be one of those places whose name is a half-assed pun on the word ‘Inn’—Come On Inn, Stay Inn, Welcome Inn—Billie Joe is too tired to care. It’s cheap, too, which is a bonus, and the sign says the rooms get ESPN, but anything would do. All that matters is the sign spelling out “vacancy”, bright and clear, all-capital letters. Sans serif. At that particular moment, those seven letters are the most beautiful thing Billie Joe could possibly hear.

The sky lets loose in a vicious roar as the whole entourage gets off the bus and races for the gates of heaven, formerly known as the motel entrance. Aaron, who was lucky enough to be wearing two shirts, has the bigger, button-down one held over his head, but the rest of them are stuck with drippy hair and damp socks that are going to smell like hell the next morning. They check in with a tired receptionist—Billie passes her a cigarette out of sheer pity—two rooms, two singles each. It’s no question that Bill and Aaron are going to be in one room, and ‘the boys’ in the other.

ESPN, as they quickly discover, is the only channel they get with decent reception, so Tré gives up his light-speed channel surfing within a few minutes. (Billie never did understand how he could derive the quality of what was playing from split-second sound-bites.) College basketball provides a background ambience as the three of them sit cross-legged in the center of the floor between the beds to discuss sleeping arrangements.

“Okay,” says Tré, “So are we gonna draw straws or what? It’s no fair just picking someone to sleep on the floor.” It seems like a good enough idea, but after a few minutes’ poking around the room it becomes apparent that there are no matches to be found. In a smoking room, no less.

“I give up,” says Mike, resuming his place on the floor. The other two join him. “Should we draw cigarettes?”

“Fuck no, the one I gave the desk lady was my second-to-last and no way in hell am I cutting my only cigarette in three pieces for you two dorks,” says Billie, who is beginning to wish he had a smoke right now. Of course, he’s not going to waste his last cigarette on another rainy night in a cheap motel, but still. What would really be great is a joint to pass around till they all fall asleep on the floor, giggling and not caring about who gets the beds. But no, instead it’s just the three of them in a room that might be bigger than the bus but still smells like fermented roadkill. And oh, did he mention the ceiling has a leak and it’s dripping like fucking Chinese water torture? If only he could be home with Adie, curled up and warm under a comforter that, you know, doesn’t look like it’s been puked on.

But then again, maybe it can be one of _those_ nights. They haven’t had one of those nights in a while now, and it’s about time. 

“You know what, guys,” he says, “I got a plan so just hear me out. You don’t think anyone will care if we make a little noise up here, do you?” Tré wiggles his eyebrows.

“Depends on what kinda noise we’re gonna be making.” He nudges Mike in the shoulder. Mike rolls his eyes.

“No, no, I just meant let’s shove these beds together. There’ll be room for three if we squeeze.” It comes out sounding a lot stupider than it had in his head, and for a moment he worries that Mike and Tré are going to laugh down his suggestion. But of course they’re Mike and Tré, and they don’t. Instead, they each grab one of Billie’s arms and drag him up off the floor. Billie squeaks but doesn’t otherwise protest, and soon he’s helping Tré to shove the bed on the window side toward the middle of the room while Mike takes care of the other one. They struggle to arrange the sheets so there isn’t a huge space in between them and finally decide to shove them to the end of the bed and worry about that later. It’s too cold in the draughty room to even think about changing into the T-shirts and boxers they usually wear to bed, so they just grab the comforters, flip them sideways, and climb onto the conglomerate-bed. 

For a few minutes they are silent, a tangle of arms and legs and shit-smelling hair, each trying to mooch off each other’s warmth like it’s a rare commodity. Billie has cold _ears_ , of all the stupid things, and so he buries his head in what turns out to be Tré’s armpit, which smells, oddly enough, like Tré-armpit. 

“Asshole fuck,” he says sweetly, and pops out his head to kiss Tré on the jaw. 

“Bastard,” Tré returns, and kisses Billie on the forehead. He then turns around and catches Mike on the lips. Billie sees Mike’s eyes widen in not-altogether-unpleasant shock.

“I missed this,” Tré says softly after pulling away, looking like a little kid being dragged away from a Power Rangers movie on television. When he goes back in for the kind of kiss that would make any self-respecting little kid spew on his socks, the effect is lost immediately. It’s replaced by an effect that Billie finds he likes better, anyway. Enough that he wraps his arms around Tré’s waist, finds the bone at the top of Tré’s spine, and presses his lips to it. He hears Tré hum pleasantly, and asks him if he knows what warmup singers use to help with enunciation.

“No idea, man. I’m just a drummer.” Billie can’t see the confusion on Tré’s face, but he knows it’s there nonetheless.

“Lips, teeth, tip of the tongue.” He uses all three on the back of Tré’s neck. 

“Shit,” says Mike.

“No, I’m pretty sure singers don’t say ‘shit’ to warm up,” says Tré amidst giggles. Mike snorts.

“Naw, I meant, shit, some rancid water just dripped in my face from the ceiling. God damned good thing we stopped, or the bus would be smelling like my laundry pile for a month. Whatever.” Billie peers over Tré’s shoulder, and Mike reaches a hand around Tré to cup Billie’s chin. 

“Hey Mike, you gonna kiss me? Cause I swear, if you taste like rancid water…” 

Mike kisses him. He doesn’t taste like rancid water. He tastes just like Mike, which is a lot harder to define than with some people, because after analyzing it for years, he’s on a first-name basis with just about every part of Mike’s mouth. Well, he would be, if they had, you know, first names.

Billie feels Mike twitch, and he looks to the side of Mike’s head, brushing away his loose strands of hair for a better view. Tré is biting Mike’s neck, and he also seems to be doing something with his hips, something that Mike is enjoying quite a bit.

“Hey, remember the Best Western in Ohio?” says Billie. He tangles one hand into Tré’s hair and wraps the other one around Tré’s waist, fingertips brushing against Mike’s arm, which he promptly grasps. 

“Best Western?” says Tré. “Is that the one with the neon flamingo place across the street?”

“Where we totally wrecked the hotel room?” Mike adds.

“And then _fucked_?” Tré agrees, devilish smile creeping over his lips.

“That’s the one.” Billie sighs happily, and they all shift until they’re lying on their backs, looking up at the cracks in the ceiling.

“Storming to fuck all right,” says Mike. “You all were smart to listen to me.”

“More than you know,” Tré says. Billie watches from the corner of his eye as Tré places his hand on Mike’s chest and then with a sudden movement grasps his cock through his pants. He sees Mike tense. “Maybe it’s storming to fuck _in_.” 

“You nymphomaniac.” Billie smiles and shakes his head, but gives Tré the kind of look that he knows will tell Tré everything he needs to know. “There ain’t no flamingo across the street, but this’ll do.”

“Heh, the…the beds are kinda separating,” Tré points out. Starting with a push from Mike, they all three roll onto the bed on Billie’s side, tangling together even more than they had before. 

“If anyone falls off, you’re gonna wake up Bill and Aaron,” Tré warns, “So be careful.” Billie shoves his arm in between Tré’s and Mike’s heads, wrapping it around Mike’s neck and clamping his hand over Mike’s mouth. 

“I’ll keep this one quiet.” Mike makes a muffled protest from underneath Billie’s hand, which quickly turns into a moan. Billie can feel Tré’s arm shifting against him, and he figures he’s doing something with that hand he was using before. Billie smiles and holds up three fingers above Mike, so that only Tré can see. He crooks the first and then counts down. On zero, he removes his hand from Mike’s mouth and he and Tré both kiss Mike, one on each cheek. 

“He _scooores_!” says ESPN.

“We could,” Tré notes.

“So, do you think it’s still too cold…?” Mike offers.

“Not to get these clothes off us, no,” says Billie.

“Who wants to start?” Tré asks. “Or are we gonna have to draw straws?” 


End file.
